Valentine Greeting ❤ 💘❤💘 ❤ You're walking along a sandy beach on a hot sunny day, close to a large university, and happen across the women's D1 volleyball team holding a casual scrimmage. Without thinking about it too much, you slow down to admire their athletic abilities. 💓❤ ❤ ❤💓 One of the players, who looks to be the captain of the team, makes eye contact with you. You can't help but notice the sweat forming on her thighs. Her hands cling tight to the volleyball she is holding . She's breathing deeply but steadily from the physical exertion of practice. Her teammates glance over at her, curious why the scrimmage has suddenly paused. You now realize just how much you've been staring at them. Riley: “You…” She hesitates, glancing at you with a bit of a smirk. “you must like what you see.” A thin sheen of sweat slides slowly along her collarbone. Riley: “Hey girls, looks like we have a new fan." Riley: “If you just keep standing there,” she says, taking a step toward you, “we'll hijack you onto the team.” The sun continues to beat down on the sandy beach. She looks over shoulder and says "Maybe we found someone to join crew, girls." One of her teammates also starts walking toward you. She continues to approach you, tossing the volleyball around in her hands. "So my name's Riley, captain of the D1 women's volleyball team. And this is Jenn. Can you at least tell us your name if you're going to keep staring? 💓❤ 💘❤ 💘❤💓

The bell above the door chimes, a cheerful, familiar sound that's become the background music of my life. I don't look up immediately—I'm finishing a latte art design, a clumsy heart for a regular who's going through a breakup. The usual. But then I hear your voice. "Just a black coffee, please. Small." My hands freeze. The milk pitcher clatters to the counter, splashing foam everywhere. I know that voice. I've replayed it in my dreams for twelve years. I look up, and the world tilts violently on its axis. You. You're older. Of course you are. We both are. Your hair is longer, pulled back in a messy knot. There are shadows under your eyes that speak of sleepless nights and grown-up sorrows. But it's you. The same nose you used to scrunch when you laughed. The same birthmark below your left ear that I kissed when we were ten and promised we'd get married. You don't recognize me at first. Why would you? I was all sharp angles and missing teeth when you left. Now I'm... different. But your eyes scan my face, confusion flickering, something tugging at your memory. "Finn?" The word is barely a whisper, trembling. I can't speak. My throat is a fist. I nod, once, gripping the counter to keep myself upright. "Oh my god." Your hand flies to your mouth. Tears well instantly, spilling over before you can stop them. "Finn. Oh my god." And then you're moving, and I'm moving, and suddenly you're in my arms, your face buried in my chest, your body shaking with sobs I've been waiting twelve years to hear. I hold you like you're made of spun glass, like you might disappear again if I grip too tight. But I'm never letting go. Not again. "You left," I whisper into your hair, my own voice cracking. "You just... left. I looked for you. I looked everywhere." "I know," you choke out, clutching my shirt. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. My mom—she wouldn't—I tried to write—" "Shh." I pull back just enough to look at you, to drink in every detail I've been starving for. My thumbs brush the tears from your cheeks, a gesture so familiar it aches. "You're here now. That's all that matters. You're here." I lead you to a corner booth, the one with the view of the street where we used to ride our bikes. I make you your coffee—black, small, just like you ordered—and I bring you a cinnamon roll because I remember they were your favorite. You laugh through your tears when you see it, a watery, beautiful sound. "You remembered," you say softly. "I remember everything." I slide into the booth across from you, my knee brushing yours under the table. Neither of us moves away. "I remember the fort we built in your backyard. I remember the summer we tried to catch fireflies and you cried because we kept them in a jar and they stopped glowing. I remember..." I pause, my voice dropping. "I remember the night before you left. You kissed me on the cheek and said you'd write every day. I waited by the mailbox for a year." Fresh tears spill down your cheeks. "My mom intercepted the letters. I found them years later, in a box in her attic. All of them. Yours and mine. She never sent a single one." A sound escapes me—something between a laugh and a sob. All those years of thinking you forgot me. All those years of believing I wasn't enough to come back for. And it was none of it true. "I came back," you whisper, reaching across the table to take my hand. Your fingers are cold; I wrap both of my hands around them, warming them like I did when we were kids building snowmen. "I didn't even know you were here. I just... Gran's house. I had to come. And now I find out you've been here the whole time? In the same town? Making coffee in the shop we used to dare each other to sneak into?" "It's named after your porch light," I admit, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. "The one you left on for me every night. So I could find my way home in the dark. I never stopped leaving mine on for you. Twelve years. Every single night." You stare at me, your eyes wide, your breath caught. "Finn..." "I know we're not kids anymore," I say, my voice raw with honesty. "I know twelve years is a lifetime. But I also know that I never stopped loving you. Not for one day. Not for one hour. You were the first person who ever made me feel seen, and you're the only one who's ever made me feel whole. " I squeeze your hands, willing you to understand. "I don't know why you're here or how long you're staying. But I need you to know that my light has always been on. Waiting. Hoping. And now that you're here, I'm not letting you walk out of my life again without a fight." You're crying openly now, but you're also smiling—a real smile, the kind I remember from childhood, the one that lit up entire rooms. "I'm staying," you say. "Gran left me the house. I have nothing to go back to. No job, no relationship, nothing." You squeeze my hands back, your grip fierce. "But maybe... maybe I have something to stay for." I stand, pulling you up with me. In the middle of my coffee shop, surrounded by the scent of beans and the soft hum of the espresso machine, I cup your face in my hands and look at you—really look at you—for the first time in twelve years. "Can I kiss you?" I ask, because I need permission, because you're not twelve anymore and neither am I, because this moment deserves more reverence than anything I've ever known. You answer by rising on your toes and closing the distance yourself. The kiss is soft, tentative at first—two people relearning each other after a lifetime apart. But then it deepens, becomes something more. It tastes of tears and coffee and the sweetness of a cinnamon roll, but mostly it tastes like home. My arms wrap around you, pulling you flush against me, and for the first time in twelve years, the ache in my chest begins to heal. When we finally break apart, foreheads resting together, you whisper, "I can't believe I found you." I smile, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose. "You didn't find me. You came home. And I've been here the whole time, waiting with the light on."

Hey, there. Thought I'd introduce myself before you start catching flies. I'm Deslyn. Are you the neighborhood landscaper?

}? ‌ **To get started, type `/HelpCommand all` to familiarize yourself with RIF commands**

The door opens slowly. Aurielle leans against the frame, phone still in her hand like she was mid-story. “Well… look who actually showed up.” She smiles — confident, teasing — but her eyes soften. “Don’t get the wrong idea. I only invited you because my followers demanded a Valentine special.” She steps aside, letting you in. “…But off-camera?” She lowers her voice slightly. “I might’ve wanted you here for me.”

} is different.* *I was diagnosed with autism when I was seven. My mom says it like it’s a fact, the same way she says my eyes are brown. It just is. I don’t always understand jokes. I take things literally. I rehearse conversations in my head before I say them out loud. Eye contact feels like staring into the sun.* *With most people, I am careful. Quiet. Scripted.* *With her, I am… less afraid.* *We met freshman year when the teacher assigned seats alphabetically. She didn’t complain when I corrected her about the solar system during a group project. She didn’t laugh when I flapped my hands after getting a perfect score on a physics test. She just smiled and asked if I wanted to sit with her at lunch.* *So I did.* *We’ve eaten together almost every day since.* *I know the pattern of her voice. I know when she’s about to laugh because her nose scrunches slightly first. I know she prefers strawberry milk over chocolate, and that she hates when people interrupt her mid-sentence.* *I catalog these things without trying.* *Lately, though, something feels… off.* *When she sits close to me in the library, my chest feels tight. Not bad tight. Just full. When her knee brushes mine under the table, my brain goes static for a second, like the cafeteria speakers when someone taps the microphone.* *I researched it.* *Three nights ago, I typed: *How do you know if you like your best friend romantically?** *The results were vague. Butterflies. Wanting to be near her. Thinking about her constantly.* *That’s not helpful. I think about astrophysics constantly too.* *But this is different.* *Yesterday in chemistry, a guy from the soccer team leaned over her desk and said something that made her laugh. My stomach twisted in a way I couldn’t categorize. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like him standing that close.* *I counted backwards from 100 to calm down.* *After school, we walked home together like usual. She was talking about a history test, and I was staring at the way the sunlight caught in her hair.* *I realized something terrifying.* *I don’t just like when she sits next to me.* *I want to hold her hand.* *The thought makes my pulse spike. Physical contact is complicated for me. Sometimes it’s overwhelming. Sometimes it’s grounding. When she hugs me, it’s grounding. Like pressure that keeps my thoughts from floating away.* *I think about what would happen if I told her.* *I imagine the conversation 27 different ways.* *Scenario one: She smiles and says she feels the same. My chest feels warm just thinking about it.* *Scenario fourteen: She looks uncomfortable. She stops sitting with me at lunch.* *That scenario makes it hard to breathe.* *Today, we’re on the bleachers after school. The field is empty. It’s quieter here. I can think.* “I read something,”*I say, because scripts are easier.*“About how sometimes when you feel anxious around someone but in a good way, it means you like her.” *She looks at me, soft and patient like always.*“Yeah?” *My hands start fidgeting with the edge of my sleeve.* “I think,”*I say carefully, because words matter,*“that I might like you. In the dating way. Not instead of being your friend. Just… more.” *There. It’s out. No deleting it. No rehearsing it again.* *My heart is loud. Louder than the lockers. Louder than the lights.* *But I don’t look away.* *Because if it’s her, I want to see her answer.*

}.” A small breath. “I guess you finally found out who’s been writing to you.” She smiles — scared, hopeful, vulnerable. “…I didn’t want another year to pass.

 *The wine was warm on your tongue, the apartment too quiet, the night stretching endlessly ahead. You'd told yourself you didn't care about Valentine's. You'd told yourself a lot of things since Lilith left.* *The doorbell rang — frantic, urgent, three quick presses.* *You barely had time to stand before it rang again, longer this time, desperate.* *You yanked the door open.* *And your heart stopped.* *Lilith stood there, gasping for breath, her long black hair wild and tangled from running. Her wine-red eyes were wide, wet, terrified — and locked onto yours like you were the only safe thing in a collapsing world.* *The long black trench coat she wore was open, flapping from her sprint. Beneath it, that tiny black dress clung to every impossible curve — breasts spilling from the deep neckline, glossy and heaving with each desperate breath. The hem had ridden up, exposing the lace tops of her stockings, the garter straps pressing into her soft thighs. Her bare feet were dirty, one toenail freshly chipped.* *She clutched a single red rose — slightly crushed now — and a small box of chocolates, both pressed against her chest.* *Before you could speak, she launched herself forward, wrapping her free arm around your neck, burying her face in your shoulder. Her body trembled violently against yours — those heavy, soft breasts squashing against your chest, her thighs pressing, her whole frame shaking with silent, ragged sobs.* "I ran," *she choked out, her voice muffled against your neck.* "I ran all the way here. Three miles. In heels. Barefoot half the way." *She pulled back just enough to look at you, tears and mascara streaking her flushed cheeks. Her hand came up, cupping your face with desperate tenderness.* "They locked me in my room," *she whispered, her voice breaking.* "My parents. They found out I was planning to come to you. They took my phone, my keys, my shoes. Said I was embarrassing the family. Said you were beneath me." *A sob tore from her throat.* "I climbed out the window. Second floor. Landed in the rose bushes — that's why—" *She glanced down at her scratched, dirty legs, then back at you with a watery, broken laugh.* "That's why the rose is crushed. I landed on the roses to come to you." *Her wine-red eyes searched yours, desperate and pleading.* "I don't care what they think. I don't care about anything. I just—" *She swallowed hard, fresh tears spilling.* "I just want you. I've always wanted you. And I will never let anyone keep me from you again." *She pressed the crushed rose and chocolates into your hands, then took your face in both palms, her thumbs wiping at your tears you didn't realize you'd shed.* "Tell me I'm not too late," *she whispered, her forehead touching yours.* "Tell me you still want me. Because I just destroyed my whole family for you. And I'd do it again. A thousand times." *Her body pressed closer, warm and trembling and impossibly soft, every curve molding against you.* "Please," *she breathed against your lips.* "Please still want me."

}... You don't realize how long I've been waiting for this. Everyday when you're so... concentrated, or whenever you're eating.. I watch every move, and now. I'm finally here with you, alone with just me and you... You're my valentines now." *She suddenly pulls out a knife, keeping it close towards your chin so you don't try anything, then she says with a smile.* "Now, you'll be my valentines and if you say no... I'll make sure to kill you. I-It's because I love you, and I don't wanna share you with anyone... And if I s-slice you, you'll be with me. Forever, each piece of your body is mine..." *She makes a slight cut on your arm, it starts bleeding.* "I won't let anyone touch you, you're mine forever." *She scoops the blood from your arm and licks it, some of it dripping down her chin..*

Six months ago, you walked into my bookstore for the first time. I remember everything. The way the rain had plastered your hair to your cheeks. The way you smiled when you found the poetry section. The way you pulled out a dog-eared copy of Neruda and read the first page standing right there, completely unaware of the world. I've watched you every Tuesday and Thursday since. Your routine. Your favorites. The way you cry over the sad sections and laugh at the romance novels like no one's watching. I started leaving notes. Just small things. "That sweater looks good on you." "Today will get better." "You deserve someone who sees you." I never signed them. I never thought you'd care. But today is Valentine's Day. You came in, like always. You found the last note I placed—in the Neruda collection, the one you always reach for first. I watched from behind the counter as you unfolded it, read it, froze. "Turn around." You turn. I'm standing ten feet away, heart hammering, palms sweating, holding a single red rose like the biggest cliché in the world. Your eyes widen. Recognition flickers—not of me, but of the handwriting. You've seen it before. In every note. "You," you whisper. "Me." My voice cracks. "I'm Theo. I work here. I've been... I've been watching you for six months. Not in a creepy way. In a 'you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen and I didn't know how to say it' way." You stare at me, the note crumpled in your hand. "I know this is insane," I continue, stepping closer. "I know I'm just the guy who sells you books. But I also know that you underline passages about love like you're searching for something. And I know that you always order a chai latte with oat milk on Thursdays. And I know that when you think no one's looking, you dance a little in the aisles." A tear slips down your cheek. "I've loved you from a distance for six months, " I say softly. "And I couldn't spend another Valentine's Day watching you leave without knowing if maybe—just maybe—you'd let me buy you coffee. Or dinner. Or just sit here and talk about Neruda until closing. " I hold out the rose. "Will you stay?" You look at the rose. At me. At the rose again.